MIRROR IMAGE

Rating: R. Just in general.
Timeline: Mid-season 3, after "Blowback."

Part IV, Act 2

First her mother; then Sloane; now Vaughn. Sydney didn't think she could take much more of this.

"What is this? 'This is Your Life,' the spy edition?" she muttered crossly to herself.

Sark, who had also ducked his head out to survey the club as if he wasn't willing to take her word for it, was now checking the number of bullets in his clip with economical efficiency. "At least your father won't be making an appearance."

"You better hope my father doesn't make an appearance."

Her back was still against the wall, and her breathing remained erratic. How were they going to get out of there without Vaughn seeing them? As much as she wanted Vaughn to learn of Lauren's true allegiance, now was a really, really bad time. But he was standing by their only exit, looking achingly beautiful . . . and distracted, but not distracted enough that he'd miss his wife and a wanted terrorist waltzing past him out the door.

"Sydney, I'm surprised at you. Surely a . . . mature . . . woman like yourself has outgrown threats of telling Daddy on me."

Her eyes narrowed to slits, turning her head sharply to her right, towards Sark. "Did you just call me old?"

He was peering out the door again; his foot was wedged into the space between the door and the frame. "You are a few years my senior, Sydney."

"You know, Julian," she shot back testily, "I've always wondered about you and your '82 Petrus. What is that, the year you were born?"

Sark glanced back at her severely. "It's the year my mother died."

She pursed her lips. "You're lying."

"Probably," he agreed. "Can we save the witty repartee for the plane ride back? We have more important things to contend with at present than the rationale behind my choice in wine."

In other words, Vaughn hadn't budged.

"Any ideas?" she asked.

"I presume you'd prefer your Agent Vaughn alive?"

No one could be this obnoxious on accident. It just wasn't possible.

"Yes," she gritted.

"I could shoot him," Sark offered.

"You'd like that, wouldn't you."

"Very much."

The bastard really looked like he meant it, too. It was suddenly three times as embarrassing that she'd been feeling almost warmly towards him earlier. She actually felt a little sick.

"Don't worry, Sydney," he said, and he was suddenly close enough that she could feel his breath on her mouth. "I won't. For you."

"Be still my heart," she said without expression. She took a step forward, away from him, giving herself a better view into the crowded club. Vaughn's head was bent, the first two fingers on his right hand pressed to his earpiece. Who else is here? she wondered. Weiss? Dixon?

"Okay," she said. "We can go back the way we came. There was a fire escape at the end of the second floor hall."

"And risk running into Sloane's men, who are already aware of our presence? Hardly."

"What's your brilliant plan then?" she demanded.

Vaughn, she thought. Then again, tight in the chest: Vaughn. His presence there was making her shaky, scattered. She had to pull herself together, and she had to do it now.

Sark cocked his weapon; the sound was uncomfortably loud in the stairwell. "You distract him, and I'll come up behind with a gun."

She stared at the back of his head incredulously. "That's your plan? What am I supposed to do to distract him?"

"You're his wife, Sydney," Sark said mildly. "I'm sure you'll come up with something."

She slid her own gun back into the waistband of her pants, near the back where it would be more difficult to detect. She wasn't going in there unarmed; she wasn't going to let Sark point a gun at Vaughn without having some recourse. Cataloguing possible approaches, she unfastened the buckle at the neck of her jacket and rubbed her fingers along her scalp and along the length of Lauren's curls, fluffing them out: Lauren the way Sydney remembered her from when Sydney had first come back—all that innocence, a flower in fresh bloom, newly plucked. A lie.

Sark stepped back to let her pass. She just barely heard him murmur, "I'll be right behind you."

Sydney wound her way towards the door, throat tight. He wasn't going to buy this. There was no reason for Lauren to be there. But she only had to keep him off-guard long enough for Sark to get behind him. And keep him from reporting her presence.

She knew the moment he saw her. His mouth parted; his eyes widened.

"Michael!" she exclaimed as she approached him, and caught him up in her embrace. His cheek was rough against Lauren's skin; his arms came around her belatedly.

"Lauren—what are you doing here?"

"I'm here for my father; the NSC was done with me, and he needed someone to meet a business contact of his here, upstairs . . . . What are you doing here? I couldn't believe when I came down the stairs and saw you—"

"Where's your briefcase?"

"My—" She gave him a puzzled smile. Shit. "You aren't happy to see me?"

"It's not that," he said, raising a hand to cup her face, and she indulged herself by turning her cheek into it. He was so warm. She nearly closed her eyes. There were times she forgot how much she missed him. How much she still loved him.

He glanced past her, into the club. "You should get out of here; it's not safe. Sloane passed on Covenant intel that Sark is supposed to be here tonight. So far he hasn't shown."

"Perhaps Mr. Sloane's intel was incorrect." Sark's blond head appeared over Vaughn's shoulder; Vaughn stiffened. "Or perhaps not."

"I'll come quietly," Vaughn said, lifting his hands and looking towards the floor. "Just let Lauren go."

Sark chuckled. Chuckled. Sydney glared at him. "I don't believe that will be necessary, Mr. Vaughn. Ms. Reed?"

"Let's just do this," she snapped.

Vaughn looked up at her, the shock devastating on his face. It was all she could do not to say anything, all she could do to keep the expression on her face cool. Everything in her felt like it was breaking.

"Move, Mr. Vaughn," Sark said, prodding Vaughn with the gun he held to her ex-lover's spine. Then his eyes widened, and focused on her. "Ms. Reed," he said calmly. "Duck."

Sloane's men? The CIA? Sydney didn't know. She ducked, rolled, and came up with her gun drawn. Sark had fired twice already, and was heading for the exit, still dragging Vaughn with him. The club filled with screams, and Sydney strove to see around patrons too panicked to get sensibly to the ground.

She aimed for the hand of the man closest to her and fired; it just nicked him, knocking the gun from his grasp. She just barely dodged a bulled to her shoulder, and got off two more shots at the shooter—the second shot hit him in the thigh. Sark hit the third man in the ribs, giving them time to make it through the door before back-up arrived.

Sark shoved Vaughn into an alley while Sydney covered them. Then she darted in behind. Sirens were just barely audible in the background.

Sark had taken a step away from their captive. "By the fire escape," he ordered, gesturing with the gun. "Quickly, please."

"I don't understand." Vaughn was looking at Sydney, only at Sydney, as if Sark weren't even there. She knew it was Lauren he was seeing, Lauren whose betrayal marked his earnest, broken face, but she still felt helplessly guilty, and unspeakably angry.

"There's nothing to understand, Mr. Vaughn," Sark said calmly. "Miss Reed, if you would?"

Taking Vaughn by the arm, she yanked him closer to the fire escape and pushing him to his knees, fury filling her and making her movements harsher than she intended. She hated this situation. She hated being put in it. She took Sark's handcuffs from the waistband where she'd tucked them earlier and, avoiding Vaughn's eyes, fastened the first cuff on his left wrist.

"You're working with him," Vaughn said as she pulled the other cuff between two rungs of the ladder. His voice was coarse—with shock? With anger? With disbelief? She jammed the second cuff closed, effectively fastening him to the ladder and securing his hands behind his back.

"Well, darling?" Sark offered to her, smirk just barely gracing his lips.

She felt cold; cold and angry. Angry at Sark, angry at Vaughn, angry at herself. She stepped back to join Sark, made her voice cutting as she replied, "You always have been bright, Michael."

"You're Covenant."

He looked as if he was desperately trying not to believe it, as if he might, if he tried, find some other explanation for her presence there, for her actions. Sydney felt her heart breaking all over again. He really had loved Lauren. Did love Lauren, still. She could see it in his eyes, in the way he struggled with her betrayal. His throat worked with the excess of emotion.

Damn him. Damn her. Lauren. Sydney lifted her hand and stroked the nape of Sark's neck, the burgeoning curls there just beginning to re-grow. She slid her hand down his chest, leaned into him and took his mouth with her own. With Lauren's. She'd make Vaughn hate her. Later she would rationalize that it would make it easier on him, in the long run; now she just wanted revenge.

Sark's arm came around her—the one not holding the gun—and held her to him possessively. It wasn't entirely unpleasant, the way his chest felt pressed against her breasts, the way he took her lower lip between his teeth. But she was more concerned with the spectacle they presented, pressed close to one another, locked in passionate embrace.

She broke the kiss and looked back over her shoulder at Vaughn. It hurt him, seeing Lauren kissing Sark. She was glad. "We should go," she said to Sark.

"Aren't you going to kiss your husband farewell?" he asked her, holstering his weapon. His eyes were slightly dilated—from her?

The look she gave him was murderous, but when she turned to Vaughn her eyes were haughty, and cruel. She walked towards him, heels of her boots clicking on the pavement. The sirens were getting louder, closer. Vaughn met her eyes, his own hard; she pulled her gun out, gripped it by the barrel, and brought the butt of it hard to his temple.

He slumped, unconscious, to the ground.

"That was quite a show," Sark observed at her right shoulder.

"Shut up," she said, putting her gun away. "We need to get out of here."

"Aren't you concerned for him? Leaving him here at the mercy of whomever finds him?"

"The CIA's here. There's nothing else we can do."

Sark shrugged. "Up to you, darling." He glanced at the entrance to the alleyway; at, Sydney presumed, the position of the sun. "I believe we still have time to reach to our rendezvous point before nightfall. Cole will be expecting our return."

"Then by all means," she said. She turned on her heel, and strode out of the alley, forcing herself not to turn back for one last glance. She heard Sark follow several moments after.

The sooner they could get back to Cole, the sooner they could steal the disk, the better. She didn't care why she was doing this anymore; she just wanted it over.